


Oykegnam

by Fallowfield



Category: Naruto, Naruto Shippuden
Genre: M/M, Sharingang zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 05:37:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallowfield/pseuds/Fallowfield
Summary: Is awakening the Mangekyo the end?





	Oykegnam

**Author's Note:**

> The piece I did for the Sharingang zine, hosted by @gearcire
> 
> Happy belated birthday, Sasuke!

What was the antithesis of awakening the Mangekyo? Such a destructive force, but it can somehow happen silently, this earthshattering terror. One can feel the glass fracturing behind their eyes, their jaw locking, the pain drilling from front to back, and the lost shards falling from their irises, blood leaking out. And yet nobody around hears the deafening shock of the earth, the frozen time, the ringing in their ears. They stand in their own head, the windows blown out, barefoot on a floor carpeted with broken glass. Could this ever be a home again, when the wind can cut straight through, kicking up dust like on a desert flat? Can a place be a home without walls or doors? The damage is permanent.

So you’d think the opposite would be something comparable in passion. Stitching together even the worst of wounds. For every severing maybe there’s a tear that could be sewn. Admittedly very rare, but the concept is fathomable, right? If two forces collide with enough momentum, they could join together, with some manner of outburst, shaking the earth around them. Or hold such a heat they melt together at the seam. The birth of a new star, blinding on sight. But is there some type of force that isn’t loud to those outside, like the former? Except it’s not even visible to the one inside, still crouching and covering their eyes. One that seeps into the bloodstream, dissolving on the tongue, and it takes years before the mending is even noticed. Or maybe it never could be. After carrying pain for so many generations, one doesn’t know how to stand straight, without their yoke to burden them. 

And maybe they exist in tandem. Can the worst of human sensation be accompanied with the grandest? The healing can occur, a vine stretching to wind its way around the dying cries of the fallen tree. Every morning the sun still rises, whether it be laughing, cruel, or humming, gentle. The ocean still laps at one’s feet, cold and dark, but always willing to embrace. The flowers still bloom, whether in spite or in celebration.

And then there are the altars. Was praying to one’s ancestors bowing in front of polished skulls, with their gleaming pearls? Or was it to their faces, still warm and smiling? One looks around the graveyard. It can’t be possible all the faces of those lain here are still remembered, a Polaroid in the mind’s eye of a beloved. But some have visitors, laying fresh flowers in their laps, imagining the smile it would bring them. One kneels there, head bent, presented with the choice to sing hymns or sit in silence. It seems selfish to leave the choice to the visitor’s discretion.

But wasn’t relegating it to such a simple description some kind of disservice? One guesses it depends on the day.

Not that anybody did these things anymore, but Madara couldn’t help but wonder. Whenever he thought of funerary rites the images of their faces never came to him, just bones, brittle and dry. Why did they have so much power over them, even so long after their lives? How could the living have so much less power than the dead? Here he was, bound, scratching at the friction of the ropes on his skin, weighted down by the choices of his fathers before him.

But there was one exception. He placed his hand in Hashirama’s, warm and pulsing with life, like running his hand across the trunk of a tree. He almost shied away from such a terrible, unescapable vitality. He could feel the life within, like how you can still feel it in even those wide tree stumps, cut at their prime. Like they can’t be completely vanquished simply at the hand of man. If anyone else said it, Madara would turn his face, disgusted, but from the lips of this man he felt he just might be able to believe it.

Maybe the people of this thick forest could, against all odds, kindle that light within. They couldn’t be completely blotted out, by violence nor wildfire. The strange happiness that his childhood friend and he had cultivated dangled in front of his face. Could it be true? He did have to admit they had a tenacious nature. The constant wars hadn’t wiped them out. Maybe there was some spark that could be cultivated into a will of fire.

But even if they could always bloom again in the ashes, he was tired of seeing it! He was tired of scarred mountainsides, he was tired of carpeting the forest with bones, and he was tired of tears watering the seeds cached in the soil. Fire is a dangerous vehicle for the will, a danger to buildings and gardens and forests. Hashirama was the first to ever suggest it could construct. That it could be a driving force. It wasn’t that Madara didn’t trust his words, it was that he didn’t trust others tarnishing them. They were priceless, a jewel he could hold in the palm of his hand. He knew they could have a Konoha, a utopia between clans, if it were just the two of them, sitting across from each other at the table. The hands of others were what he was worried about.

Hashirama was so trusting. Madara was so loath to let anybody else into their space. But Hashirama would risk everything. He wasn’t just a sacrificial lamb, was he? Madara felt something between them more than their purpose. He couldn’t remember a time before he’d ached for Hashirama. But did Hashirama ever ache for anything smaller than all of civilization? What a heavy burden. Madara’s instinct would tell him no, but against his better judgment, he hoped he did. Madara knew his embrace may not be the most tender, but he knew it would be for him. When he thought of him, Madara felt the peace touch his heart, with just a fingertip press, but he could feel it nonetheless. He knew he couldn’t give Hashirama a healing touch, only burns, but he hoped that he could offer him something. Madara even felt that if he were to pass away, he would still see that smile in his mind’s eye, the only face amongst all the bones. What could Hashirama possibly get in return? Madara hoped there was something he couldn’t see.

But wasn’t he betraying his ancestors, those dry faceless bones? Why was he so willing to give everything just for another moment of feeling safe in Hashirama’s arms? Would he have ever committed to this idea if it hadn’t come from Hashirama’s mouth? Especially after Izuna’s death. How could he bear to look at a Senju again? All that had been whispered into his ear as a child tried to cover his eyes and mouth, but he turned away, thrashing to loosen their grip, their nails scratching his skin, thin red lines stinging even when they were gone. He could feel them in any moment he wasn’t with Hashirama, and especially when he spoke with any other, saw those glances.

But when he was alone with him, they faded away, their own personal Konoha. And the sun came out, shaded gently by the leaves. Madara always moved closer to avoid having to stare at his reflection in those dark eyes. Then Hashirama tilted his face up, a finger under his chin. Madara saw himself reflected there. But then Hashirama smiled and kissed him below the chin. “I’m happy, Mads. I want to show them.” And his hands ran through his hair.

Why was the ache the strongest when he was the closest to happiness he’d ever felt? Madara couldn’t breathe. But the thought that he could ever make Hashirama happy couldn’t leave his mind. Madara had never wished for happiness, not once in his life. But the thought of bringing happiness, of bringing pride, was the only balm he’d ever felt for this ache.

But what was strange was Hashirama’s ability to turn away from his ancestors. Were they faces to him or were they dry bones? He honestly seemed to believe they would support his idea. It was like Hashirama could hear the voices of the Senjus, alive and dead, feeling them smile down on him. How were they so lucky to have such a good descendent, standing here in front of the banners of their clans? The Uchiha were left with him, hands shaking, brotherless, standing here with his back to the townspeople. He could feel their eyes watching, boring into his back. But the words stayed with him. I want to show them. 

The Senju frowned at giving away their savior to this man with blood he couldn’t wash off his hands. But Hashirama had always said there is no such blood. Madara did eventually believe him, but struggled when he looked down and still saw it smeared across his hands. His own personal tsukiyomi. And the Uchiha stared expectantly, for he carried them on his back. His love for an outsider was at their expense, as his father had always admonished him. He felt impossibly small. Maybe it was their blood he could see. He’d always tried to see Izuna’s face in his mind’s eye, but nothing came. Maybe that was his punishment.

But Hashirama beside him sat tall and so beautiful, and maybe it was his fatal flaw, Madara’s instinct to trust him. He had never lied. And if anyone could bring them together, it would be Hashirama. And that was the only happiness he’d ever managed to grasp, but he’d had to hold it cached under his hand, clandestine, even when he’d tried not to.

But then he found himself treading across the fields and fields, already bones and dust, Madara’s stride grew stronger. The stares of his clan only grew deeper after death, hollow eyes bored into dry skulls. What he hadn’t expected was Konoha’s betrayal of Hashirama. He’d been beloved to them. How dare they? How dare they break their promise to the only person who believed in them? Hashirama’s was the only face that he could conjure after his death, but he couldn’t bear to look at it. He couldn’t bear to let his light shine on him. But then. They blotted away the only face who appeared to him. They tried to make him into dry bones, after all he’d done. And Hashirama joined the corpses. No longer was he a face and a voice. 

That’s when Madara broke.

He didn’t care anymore if the whole forest went up in flame. First Izuna, and now Hashirama, were gone. Konoha had only been a fleeting concept to him, but it had already slipped away.

But what Itachi saw was flesh and blood and beating hearts. Their faces shone golden, already shrines, smiles growing flowers. How could anybody see anything else? When they were no longer there, the bones were only objects, the person gone from them, and that made him sadder than anything else. He could never believe their souls would just dissipate upon death. 

So that’s why he cherished the moment here, sitting on the cliffside with Shisui, swinging feet, the sun obscured by those curls of his. His smile reflected its light brighter than it ever shone. If he couldn’t have this moment forever, Itachi would at least remember that image forever.

“If I died right now, I’d be happy.” Shisui’s voice suddenly came, his eyes flashing, then turning to gaze out over the gorge. He patted Itachi’s knee with the palm of his hand, then leaned his head on Itachi’s shoulder. “I’d have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

And that touch is what Itachi would remember forever, that lifegiving warmth. And it was just his, if even for a moment. But it felt painfully temporary, violent pangs in Itachi’s throat. Itachi knew Shisui was familiar with the earthrending roar in Itachi’s ears, the bending of the light, stretching images oblique across his eyes. He had the shards gone from his eyes too. Itachi always stared into them. He couldn’t help it. The light was getting harder and harder to see, but sun shone through his shattered windows, regardless, if it was Shisui. Maybe he knew the secret beyond that curse, with its blinders that block the light.

Shisui’s gaze met his again, and Itachi saw his brows furrow, so he looked away. But Shisui wasn’t intimidated, gently lifting Itachi’s chin again, so he could see the tears welling in his lashes. “‘Tach….” And then the guilt came, of the short life of Shisui’s smile.

Itachi always kept open the shutters so he could remember, striving to collect all these moments so they weren’t lost in the abyss behind his eyes. But the open windows always let in dark thoughts, too, the ones that showed him increasingly graphic images of Shisui, broken neck, lying at the bottom of this gorge. Closer and closer until he could see his cracked lips, broken teeth, blood dribbling out. Itachi would shake his head violently. No! Then he would brush the image flat like he would the wrinkles out of a sheet. That isn’t Shisui. And he would replace the image with that he’d remembered. That he’d manufactured. That’s his true nature, glowing with the sunset behind him, bathing him in light. The light he shone to the world. A framed picture Itachi kept on the dusty night table of his mind.

But now that was his predicament, countless frames crammed onto it, and as soon as he dusted the last picture, the first would be covered again. But he wasn’t afraid of the dust. It was when the trail of blood appeared on Shisui’s lip again in the moments he wasn’t concentrating, illuminated by a ray of sunlight, dripping off his chin, even through the static smile. It was constant, tireless work.

But Shisui shut his eyes, fingers still against Itachi’s jaw, ruthlessly gentle. Then the smile returned, and he tilted his head. Itachi felt relief. As long as Shisui was smiling. The tear fell in slow motion, tracing its track down Itachi’s cheek. Shisui wiped it away, then kissed Itachi’s forehead. “It’s getting dark. I’ll take you home.”

The problem was with those who hadn’t died. They couldn’t be dynamic images, and they couldn’t be true. When Itachi stood out, face to the rain, he could see the faces of his parents perfectly. His mother’s silent pride, the smell of her breakfast, her neat stitching on his vest. His father’s steel cord of a voice, a tightrope to walk on. But the way he’d raise his chin when they mentioned his son. Itachi’s tears had dried long ago, an empty chasm in his chest, and he tried to let the rain fill it. 

But Sasuke. His image was grainy and lagged, tea stained with time. He’d just been a little kid. Itachi did the mental math he did every day. He’d be sixteen now. And he could conjure no image. There was one face, twisted in anger, surrounded by lightning. But that wasn’t true either. He’d only felt hurt emanating from him, more like the child he used to know than what he would be now.

In a way he couldn’t wait for Sasuke to appear at his doorstep, even though he knew it would be the end. He’d be able to update his image of him, to someone with all the strength that he knew he had latent in him. And perhaps after death he could better see Sasuke, able to watch from above as he grew.

Kisame came and stood next to him, watching the rain collect in his hood, soak his hair and run down Itachi’s face. He did not say a word, staring up at the sky too, hands in his pockets. The monster Uchiha was facing was invisible and unknowable. All Kisame could do is stand beside him until Itachi shut his eyes, lowered his face, then turned to go back inside.

Every night before he went to sleep, Itachi found himself thinking of Shisui’s image. It was the only way he could ever shut his eyes, and it was a pillow for his head. And he ached from where he’d held his happiness, so brief, but then he’d let slip away. All he could do was think forward to the day where he’d be able to see his brother in the same way, as he lay in the rain at Sasuke’s feet, diluted blood pooling around him, smile stretching across his face. All Itachi did was think forward.

For Sasuke they were just voices. No image was conjured in his mind’s eye, just the caress of a chilled breeze in the summer, escaped from somewhere far away. In a way he was relieved. He wasn’t sure he could look into any sort of heavenly light that might shine upon his face. The sun always made him squint, and he tried to convince himself it didn’t matter because he squinted due to astigmatism anyway.

Years from now, would his heart, used to ambling, settle into one tree? Could his wings ever stop longing for the sky? Was it in him to rest? It had always been his plague, jumping from the branch a thousand times, but the gliding never satisfied him. He hadn’t been told until later that his wings had been clipped. He’d always assumed it was some sort of lacking on his part. And he couldn’t shake that, even with the proof before his eyes, Naruto holding the clipped feathers gingerly in the palm of his hand, eyes dressed in sorrow. Sasuke pretended not to notice the time he’d spent on them. There was no way the years of dust hadn’t clotted or mangled them, but here they were, carefully combed through and glossy. His feathers bristled at the idea of somebody staring at him for so long. He frowned, shut his eyes, and turned away.

Even though he was so young, he’d felt a certain clarity from all the shattering. A slow, wilting death has high risk of clouding your vision. But as he lay on the floor, Moses parting the ocean of blood, he squinted up at the gentle sun. At the birdsong. No thoughts entered his head at all. All his senses were overwhelmed, and he heard every sound and saw every drop. There was no glass in which to hold them, so they just poured out onto the floor. He couldn’t wait until it made him blind.

He’d thought people would expect the anger to come, flooding. What surprised him was that they had no expectations at all, only avoiding eye contact. It didn’t matter enough to even make an assumption. Their lives were full of worries already, and they acted like this little boy was just a stranger, having traveled from afar, telling stories of great bloodshed, even though the wave was close enough to home that the blood leaked into their basements like the rain during the summer storms.

And it was wrong anyway. He just felt dry, cracked earth, a rumbling with his ear to the ground, and dust in his mouth. Maybe he was dry bones already. The anger didn’t come for months, and when it did, it buzzed clumsily around his skull, unable to find its way out, even with all the shattered windows. The sound was what finally caused him to stand, springing up from his statuehood paralyzed on the floor, and wildly swinging his arms to stop it. He had to find a way to focus it, so it stopped flying into his eyes and shaking his head when it collided with the walls. So he had to finally open his eyes, watering and sensitive to the light, and capture it in his hands. But it turned and stared at him to write its script, though he felt his mind ossified.

Revenge, it finally whispered. It held the ache of a yoke over his shoulders, duty more than desire. He bit his lip. Become strong, then, and face this demon. This demon. His brother was apparently a demon. That face was the hardest one for him to conjure, even to this day, but yet it was still etched on his eyelids. He’d looked down at his pale human hands. At least he doubted he’d ever live that long, and that brought great relief. What was the point of survival if he was sentenced to living in hell? 

He almost regretted pushing their faces away, refusing to look at them because the pain was too much. There wasn’t even room in Konoha’s graveyard for them, so he was left with their urns in Naka Shrine, but he did not enter. And now all he heard was their voices, as overheard conversations wandering in the breeze rather than speaking to him. It didn’t strike him until later how much they seemed to ignore his purpose. The ghosts drifted right past him. Revenge felt trivial and something they didn’t care about, but it was all he could cling to. Even Itachi himself had seemed to move on, except for that hidden compartment where he held Sasuke. And perplexingly, Naruto had one too.

Here was Naruto again, collecting his scraps. His tongue had grown tired of asking why. Every other being had forgotten. It felt like several eternities ago, and he was an ossified shell, somehow still remaining through the elements, though nothing lived inside. No amount of destruction appeased him, but none wounded him, either. He’d stopped opening Naruto’s drawers, unable to view his cut feathers, gathered into bouquets. The fresh cut scent of flower stems was their cry in the throes of death. But he did not grow angry.

Naruto at least understood. There isn’t a resurrecting force. And that was okay. When the flowers begin to wilt, he presses them. He doesn’t attempt to bring back what was lost, the sentimentality growing cruel and oppressive, whispering lies to him and locking the door, binding in twine. He lets the butterflies land on him, then take off again, though he knows their course ends in death. Sasuke hadn’t expected that, assuming his pursuit of him had been naïevity.

But also. Naruto was permitted to be wrong. To have one flaw. Who was Sasuke to condemn him? If Sasuke was already dead, as he believed, he felt relief that Naruto would bring back his corpse to bury him at Naka, the earth shading his face from the sun. To seal the tomb. Sasuke hadn’t wanted to talk, so he’d pretended to be asleep. Naruto was used to this charade, and he tucked the blanket around him and blew out the lantern.

Naruto was the only thing so warm and bright that Sasuke could stand, that Sasuke could let touch him. Naruto held him softly with the calloused pads of his fingers, like he knew where the aches were, but he wasn’t noncommittal, like he was afraid of hurting him. He didn’t shy away from treading across the glass to meet him where he was. And inevitably, slowly, under the sun, the upturned earth, the deathbed of the garden, began to sprout wildflowers again. And Naruto would guarantee that it remained a secluded meadow in the forest, if that was Sasuke’s wish. It pained Sasuke to feel anything but punishment, of ascetic lifestyle, but Naruto was his only indulgence, and Naruto could stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on twitter @fallofield!


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